


Times Past

by MissLee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Minor Injuries, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 00:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11657565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissLee/pseuds/MissLee
Summary: Pinterest prompt: 'while on a case Sherlock gets injured leading John to discover something distressing about him'This is my interpretation."It feels like a stake has been driven through Johns heart at the sight of those mere few words. The anaesthetist is speaking but it doesn't register; it's as if the whole world has been plunged into slow motion. There's a ringing in his ears that makes his head spin as he stares unseeingly down at the folder. He can't breathe. He needs to step outside, needs to walk, needs a drink. Anything."





	Times Past

* * *

 

"Sherlock. She really will sedate you for being a cock, you know." 

"Yes whatever, John. I've dislocated my shoulder; it's hardly rocket science. Just make them push it back in!" 

John shoots the nurse a sympathetic look before replying, "Sherlock shut up and let her sort you out." 

"The anaesthetist is on her way." The nurse informs John after fiddling around with the makeshift sling keeping Sherlocks elbow at a right angle.

"Thank God," Sherlock mutters under his breath. 

"One more word and  _I'll_ sedate you." 

The nurse leaves quickly, wanting to get out of the line of fire. 

A blessedly short time later, after Sherlock sat and grumbled about everything from the material of his sling to the incompetence of the criminal he still managed to catch even after suffering a minor injury, the anaesthetist arrives with what appears to be Sherlocks medical file in hand and a pensive look on her face. 

"We'll be performing the reduction here," she says absentmindedly, not looking up from the papers. "It says here you're a past drug user?" She pauses for a moment, seemingly waiting for confirmation from Sherlock who is resolutely staring at the ceiling. The woman turns to John instead. 

"Ah, yes, he is. An ex-addict, yes." 

"And you are..?" 

"Doctor John Watson, his flat mate," he replies as he reverts to military stance. 

She holds out the file to him, "Perhaps you'd like to look at this then, considering you're probably responsible for his general wellbeing." John takes it from her and flips to the first page. 

_Attempted Suicide, Age 22_

It feels like a stake has been driven through Johns heart at the sight of those mere few words. The anaesthetist is speaking but it doesn't register; it's as if the whole world has been plunged into slow motion. There's a ringing in his ears that makes his head spin as he stares unseeingly down at the folder. He can't breathe. He needs to step outside, needs to walk, needs a drink. Anything. 

Barely sparing Sherlock and the woman a glance, he drops the file onto the hospital bed and escapes through the privacy curtain and into the ward. 

Movement everywhere. Patients, doctors, nurses, surgeons, registrars, friends and families. He needs to get away, somewhere isolated so no one will witness his breakdown. 

 _Bathroom_.

Frantically, he tries to retrace his steps: _back through the main doors, down the corridor, round a corner, continue to the main floor of the hospital..._

He couldn't remember. All other thought was lost to him aside from the knowledge that Sherlock, his Sherlock, had been so desperately miserable that he'd seen fit to... to end it.

John doesn't even know how he did it but specifics don't matter, his friend was alone and vulnerable and-

"...Sir?" A low voice filters through the white noise around him and wades through the shock. "Can I help you, Sir?" 

Momentarily, the sound of another's voice stills him and he manages to focus on the sight of another nurse, this time a man, looking at his ashen face and wild eyes with something approaching concern. _Too many people, need to process._

"Um, could you please point me to the nearest loo?" He stammers while glancing around nervously.

The man then turns to the left and directs him to another set of doors in the far wall. John darts away without another word, he thinks he hears the man ask him if he's alright but he can't be sure. He's not focused on that right now. It _doesn't matter_.

 _Calm down_. 

He bursts through the toilet door and finally, he is alone. 

John braces himself against the sink, the surface is cold and hard and smooth and it grounds him for a second until his mind is then overwrought with unending questions.

Why did he do it? How did he do it? Who found him? Did he write a note? For how long was he unhappy? Does he still feel like that? Who else knows? 

The man in the mirror stares back at him. John doesn't recognise the cold, clammy skin or the dilated pupils. Doesn't register the panting breaths as his own. Instead he sees Sherlocks death painted in a thousand different ways: his body hanging from a tree, bleeding out on a train track, convulsing on the floor, a bullet through his magnificent brain, thick trails of blood leading from severed veins...

Suddenly, John needs to see him, hold him, feel that he's still there. He pulls himself together, washes his face with freezing water and simply breathes. He can do this. 

He does a better job of finding his way this time and soon he is back where he started, however, Sherlock is lying unconscious and on top of the hospital bed as opposed to in it. 

John studies his face. It's more youthful in sleep with the harsh angles of his bones softened. The semi-permanent look of disgust had fallen away and he looked peaceful in a way John had never seen him before. 

He noted that Sherlocks shoulder had been fixed and all there was to do now was wait for him to wake up. 

Slowly, he walked to the end of the bed and picked up the file that had been put back into the organiser attached to the footboard. Mentally prepared, he turned to the first page listing Sherlocks medical history and began to read. 

 _Attempted Suicide, Age 22. Overdose via intravenous drug use specifically cocaine and heroin. Suffered beginnings of organ failure. Placed on suicide watch. Do not administer opiate based painkillers_. 

It startled John to see his friends experience chalked up in a few lines of scruffy, handwritten text from years ago. It could have been anyone but he was burdened with the knowledge that it was _Sherlock_ and that glaring at it wouldn't alter anything.  

Not wanting to read anymore, he replaced the folder at the end of the bed and moved to sit in the well-worn chair next to his friend.  

All John could do for a long time was look at Sherlock, trying to find any evidence of his past and thought fondly of how if Sherlock were awake he would be able to deduce anything and everything about anyone. 

"John, I can hear your thoughts from here." 

Sherlocks rumbling, groggy baritone makes him nearly jump out of his skin. 

"I- I thought you were out?" 

"Well, obviously I was until a few seconds ago, wasn't I?" Sherlock retorts defensively.

"Ah, yes," is all John can think of to say in reply.

They sit in silence for a few long minutes before John finally comes up with something to fill the void. "How's the shoulder?" 

Sherlock simply gives John his 'don't be an idiot' look and then shuts his eyes again.

"Hurts then. Right, got it." 

"John you're awful at small talk so ask your questions," he says in an endlessly bored tone.

He doesn't know what to say, he almost can't bring himself to ask anything but then the questions that clouded his mind earlier return. 

"Why did you do it?" 

"Because I was bored. Next." 

A look of shock crosses Johns face, "Wait, what? You were _bored_ so you decided to take your own life?" He asks angrily.

"How else would you describe it! I didn't want anything more to do with life, therefore, I was bored." 

John gives up with that line of questioning, probably best to move onto facts instead of asking about feelings. Calming himself down he then asks, "So who found you?" 

"Mycroft," Sherlock replies shortly.

"Did you write a note?" 

"Of course not, what's the point in that?" 

He thinks for a minute, "Not a lot, I suppose." 

They don't say anything else for a while, both of them stuck in their own thoughts and trying to work out what best to say or do next. 

"Does anyone else know?" John asks eventually.

Sherlock gives a heavy put upon sigh, "Mummy, Father, Lestrade and probably the entirety of the hospitals medical staff." 

"Sherlock, just stop it." 

"Stop what?" He retorts petulantly.

"This," John gestures to the space between them, "I'm not trying to... to hurt you," he trails off.

Sherlock doesn't say anything for such a long time that John starts to think he'd gone back to sleep when softly, Sherlock murmurs, "You weren't supposed to find out." 

"Why wasn't I?" 

"Because you'd look at me like you are now." 

"Your eyes aren't even open." 

"I can _feel_ it, John, you pity me."

John sighs. In a way, he supposes he does pity Sherlock, but even more so he feels like it's his duty now to make sure he never contemplates it again. 

"I just wish I could have been there to help you," he mutters quietly. 

Sherlock does look at him then, "You're here now." 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! Thanks for reading and I'm sorry about not updating my series. I promise there will be an update but writers block has really set in D= I'm going to try and persevere though *determined face*
> 
> P.s. If you liked this go and check out some of my others! <3
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://missleeismyname.tumblr.com/)


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